


The Shore Never Reached

by SantaCarlaUndead



Category: The Lost Boys (Movies), Titanic (1997)
Genre: Bottom David, Boys In Love, Character Death, Class Differences, David is head over heels for Michael, David/Michael Emerson - Freeform, Edwardian Period, Emotional Roller Coaster, First Class, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Historical References, M/M, Movie: Lost Boys (1987), Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, RMS Titanic, Sad and Happy, The boys are third class passengers, Vampire Turning, Vampires, We hate Michael’s father here, third class
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:33:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29973957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SantaCarlaUndead/pseuds/SantaCarlaUndead
Relationships: David & Dwayne & Marko & Paul (Lost Boys), David & Michael Emerson (Lost Boys), David/Michael Emerson (Lost Boys)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

The gleaming, white superstructure of the Titanic rises above the great sea mountainously beyond its rails. Charcoal-coloured funnels rise into the sapphire sky much like great pillars of marble. Crewmen glide across the newly sanded and stained decks, dwarfed by the immensity of the steamer. It is almost noon on sailing day.

A crowd of thousands of onlookers blackens the pier that stands next to Titanic. The people resemble ants on a great expanse of never-ending land. On the pier, horse drawn carriages, motor cars and lorries move at a slow pace through the dense plethora of human life. The atmosphere is thick with excitement, and the giddiness of something similar to a young child witnessing a wonder. People embrace one another in tearful farewells, or they wave and shout, “Bon Voyage” wishes to friends and relatives occupying the decks above.

A view of Titanic can be seen from several blocks away, towering above buildings and into the skyline. The steamers whistle echoes across Southampton.

Within one of the smoky pubs, which is crowded with dock workers and ship crews, there sits a quartet of raggedy young men. Across from them are four Swedes. There is a poker game in progress, and the eight men in lower class garb deal a very serious hand.

David and Marko, both of which are in their mid to late teens, exchange an impish glance as two of the four Swedes sat opposite to them, argue in irritated Swedish. David is a flaxen-haired drifter, his hair is a bit unkempt, but not too bad. His clothes are wrinkled from being slept in many previous nights. The boy is a wildcard, very self-possessed and sure-footed for his age, having lived on his own much of his life.

“Du dumma fiskhuvud!” Says one of the men, Olaf. “Jag kan inte tro du satsar på våra biljetter!” Sven, the other, frowns. “Du förlorade våra pengar. Jag försöker få tillbaka den. Stäng nu upp. Ta ett kort!”

The other two Swedes whose names David doesn’t know (nor does he care to), glance at one another dumbly, but ultimately remain in silence.

David’s face lights up and he flashes a grin towards the two worked up men. “Hit me again, Sven.” He takes the card and slips it into his hands. The boy’s eyes betray nothing. Marko sits silently beside him, he licks his lips, refusing a card. In the centre of the table, there lies coins and bills from at least four different countries, this has been going on for a while. Sitting atop the money are four third-class tickets for the RMS Titanic.

In the distance, the Titanic’s whistle blows again. A final warning.

David takes a shaky breath. “The moment of truth, boys...” He says. Marko puts down his cards and so do the Swedes but, David holds his cards close, as if they are precious beyond measure. He lets his eyes fall on the other cards. “Let’s See, Marko’s got... Niente. Olaf, you’ve got squat. Sven, uh-oh... Two pair... Hmmm...” He turns to gaze at the other two boys who have yet to speak. “Paul, the floor’s all yours.” Like clockwork, Paul reveals his hand. “...Three of a kind.”

“Dwayne,” David cranes his neck to look at the stoic boy to Paul’s left. Dwayne’s cards hit the table, revealing a ‘Flush’.

“Not bad.” David comments as he taps his gathered cards against the tabletop. “Looks like it’s down to me.” He peeks at his cards. “Sorry, boys...” He sighs.

The boys’ eyebrows raise, but the first to speak up is Marko. “Sorry...? What’d you got?! Did you lose my money?” 

David smirks. “I’m sorry... you’re not gonna to see this godforsaken place again for a long time.” He slaps a full house down onto the rickety wooden table. “Because we’re going to America!” Full house, boys!” 

Not moments later, the table explodes into shouting in several languages, even some colourful Italian from Marko, while Paul and Dwayne rake in the money and the tickets.

Olaf turns and balls up one huge fist, Paul freezes and thinks that he is going to beat David senseless, but he swings round and punches Sven, who flops down backwards onto the floor and sits there, looking depressed. Olaf seems to forget about the four of them, who are now dancing around in giddy happiness.

“We’re going to America...” They’re all shouting, when the pub keeper points to the clock. “No, mate. Titanic goes to America. In five minutes.” David glances at his rambunctious friends, wild-eyed. “Shit. Come on, boys!” It has been grand, but they run for the door.

David and the boys, carrying everything they own in the kit bags on their shoulders, sprint wildly towards the pier. They tear through immense crowds, which stand next to the terminals. As they jostle and push through slow-moving gentlemen and ladies, shouts can be heard. They dodge piles of luggage, and weave through more groups of people. They both burst out onto the pier and David comes to a dead halt... Staring up at the cast wall of the hull, which towers seven stories above the wharf and is over an eighth of a mile in length. The ship is monstrous.

Paul dashes back and grabs David, and they both sprint after Marko and Dwayne towards the third-class gateway at E Deck. The two men reach the end of the ramp, nearly colliding with their counterparts, just as an officer detaches it at the top. 

“Wait!” Paul shouts, holding his hands up. “We’re passengers!” Flushed and panting, he waves ‘their’ tickets. 

The officer cocks an eyebrow. “Have you been through the inspection queue?” He questions impatiently. 

David nods frantically, and his mouth produces a lie. “Of course. Anyway, we don’t have lice.” He gestures to the others as well. “Any of us. We’re Americans.”

The officer appears testy, second guessing his decision, but relents. “Right... Come aboard.”

The boys whoop in victory as they run down the white, painted corridor. “We are the luckiest sons o’bitches in the World, you know that!?” David shouts to the boys. They eventually begin to walk at a steady pace, in search of their shared cabin. “G-60... G-60. G-60...” Mutters David, who occasionally looks down at ‘his’ ticket for reference. “Ah!” He points. “Right Here!”

Outside, the mooring lines, as big around as a man's arm, are dropped into the water. A cheer goes up on the pier as seven puffing tugboats pull the Titanic away from the quay.

David, trailed closely by the boys, walks down a narrow corridor with doors lining both sides, like a school hallway. Total chaos reigns as people argue over luggage in several languages, or wander in confusion within the labyrinth. They pass hordes of immigrants studying the signs over the doors, and looking up the words in phrase books.

Eventually, they find their berth. It’s a modest cubicle, painted enamel white, with four bunks. Exposed pipes jut out overhead. The other two guys, the Swedes, are already there. Olaus and Bjorn Gundersen. 

David throws his kit down onto the bottom bunk, while Marko and Paul argue about who gets the top bunk and who gets the floor. Dwayne glances at the two as he tosses his own bag up onto the empty top bunk. 

Bjorn looks at Olaus and says in hushed Swedish, “Var är Sven?”

David chuckles wryly as he turns away from the bunk, and folds his arms across his chest. “Sorry, boys, your pal, Sven, couldn’t make it.” He shrugs nonchalantly. The boys exchange amused glances with one another. Paul elbows Marko, his cheeks puffed out as he tries to hold back his laughter. 

Dwayne rolls his eyes at the blonds’ antics and takes a tattered book whose title has worn away from the inner pocket of his jacket. The spine crackles as he opens it. 

“Well, boys,” David says, clapping his hands together. “Whaddya say we have some fun?”


	2. Chapter 2

The ship glows with the warm light of the late afternoon. David and the boys stand right at the bow, gripping the curved railing. David leans over, looking down fifty feet to where the prow cuts the surface like a knife, sending up two glassy sheets of water.

Up on the bridge, Captain Smith turns from the binnacle to First Officer, William Murdoch. “Take Her to sea, Mister Murdoch. Let’s stretch Her legs.” Murdoch moves the engine telegraph lever to ‘ALL AHEAD FULL.’ In the engine room, the telegraph clangs.

“All ahead full!” Shouts a crewman. 

On the catwalk, Thomas Andrews, the shipbuilder, watches carefully as the engineers and greasers scramble to adjust valves. Towering above them are two, reciprocating engines, nearly four stories tall, their ten foot long connecting rods surging with the turning of massive crankshafts.

Back above deck, Mister Murdoch approaches Captain Smith. “Twenty-one knots, sir!” Smith turns to him. “She’s got a bone in her teeth now, eh, Mr. Murdoch.” He accepts a tea cup from Fifth officer Lowe. He watches as the white V of water hurls outward from the bows. They are invulnerable, towering over the sea

Paul and Marko lean far over, still looking down. In the glassy wave, two dolphins appear, under the water, swimming fast. Paul observes the dolphins and grins. They breach the water, jumping clear, and then they dive back. Marko looks forward. “I can see the Statue of Liberty already.” He holds his hand up, as if pinching the sky. “Very small, of course.”

David leans back against the rail to Paul’s left, his elbows propped up and bent at an angle, and shakes his head with a sigh. “You two are idiots.” He says, plucking a shoddy hand-rolled cigarette from his breast pocket, and then a book of matches. 

Dwayne lounges on one of the deck's wooden benches like he owns it, his book held in front of his face. He lowers the book and glances towards the railing where Paul and Marko are still whooping and hollering at the dolphins below. “Don’t lean over too far.” He tells them like an exasperated father. 

A plume of semi-lucent smoke swirls past David’s lips, evaporating into the cool evening air. “Better listen to Dwayne, boys, unless you wanna join the fishes.” He takes a puff from his cigarette and moves to sit on the bench beside Dwayne who inches his long legs up to accommodate.

“It’ll be nice to be back.” David comments dryly, flicking the end of his cigarette to rid the tip of accumulating ash. A young boy in lower class garb darts past them clutching a bag of marbles. David takes one last drag and stubs his cigarette out on the arm of the bench, ignoring the sour glances of upper class passersby. A middle-aged woman in an outlandishly big hat gasps dramatically, bringing a gloved hand up to her mouth.

Dwayne’s scrutinising gaze burns into the back of the woman’s head as she continues down the deck. He snaps his book closed with a sigh and stows it away in the inner pocket of his torn jacket. “They really think they’re so holier-than-thou, with their noses turned up like they own the world.” 

David shrugs. “There’s always gonna be someone who thinks they own the world.” He looks up, eyeing the seagulls soaring overhead. 

“Hey, hey! Cut it out, idiot!” Marko exclaims, swatting at Paul’s arms. “I ain’t in the mood for a swim!” 

David rolls his eyes. “Get away from the railing, you morons. Don’t need you going over.” Paul sighs dejectedly and throws an arm across Marko’s shoulders, ushering him away. 

“Good choice.” David comments, fishing a Ticonderoga pencil from his jacket pocket. There’s a sketchbook resting atop his lap. 

“Ooh!” Marko exclaims, scurrying over to perch atop the arm of the bench beside David, who flashes him a sideways glance. He’d always taken an interest in his friend’s decidedly artistic inclination. He’s practically buzzing out of his skin as David begins to leaf through the sketchbook in pursuit of a fresh page. “Ah, ah!” Marko wags a finger, resisting the urge to pluck the pad of paper from David’s deft hands. 

“Let’s see ‘em.” Marko taps at a yellowing page with his index finger. David pauses in consideration, as if he’s weighing the pros and cons of such an exception. He’d always been incredibly private when it came to his art. 

“If I show them to you, will you shut up?” David asks with a sigh, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb against the paper. 

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” The smaller boy replies

David flips back to the first page in his sketchbook. Sure lines and carefully placed crosshatching span the sheet of paper in varying degrees of thickness and opacity. The drawing is of a stout old man, sporting a thick beard and handlebar moustache. 

“Hey, isn’t that the guy from The Red Lion?” Marko asks. He snaps his fingers, “Mr. Hallewell.” David nods. 

“Nice guy. He’d always throw in a couple’a extra fries whenever I’d order the fish n’ chips.”


	3. Chapter 3

David lounges on a bench in the sun. Titanic’s wake spreads out behind him to the horizon. He has his knees pulled up, supporting a worn leather bound sketchbook, his most valuable possession. With Conté crayon, his Ticonderoga too stubby for use, he draws rapidly, using concentrated strokes. 

An immigrant from Manchester named Cartmell has his 6-year-old daughter, Cora, standing on the lower rung of the railing. She is leaned back against his beer barrel of a stomach, watching the gulls.

His sketch captures them perfectly, with a great sense of the humanity of the moment. David is good. Very good. Dwayne looks over David’s shoulder and nods appreciatively. 

Tommy Ryan, a scowling, young Irish immigrant, watches as a crew member passes by, walking five small dogs around the deck. One of them, a black French bulldog, is among the ugliest creatures on the planet. “That’s typical.” Mutters Tommy, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. “First-class dogs come down here to take a shite.” 

David looks up from his sketch. “Ah... C’mon, you know that’s so that we know where we rank in the scheme of things, my friend. The ants under the magnifying glass.”

Tommy cracks a grin. “Like we could forget.” There’s a beat before he introduces himself properly. “I’m Tommy Ryan.” 

David nods in acknowledgment. “David.” He says, and then gestures towards the boys. “Marko, Paul,” The two wave enthusiastically. “And Dwayne.” The introvert shoots Tommy a pair of introductory finger-guns. 

He glances across the well deck. At the aft railing of B deck promenade stands a young man not much older than himself, in a simply tailored suit and a white silk cravat tie. He watches him tousle his unruly brunet curls, unable to take his eyes off of him. 

They are across from each other, sixty or so feet apart, with the well deck like a great valley between them.   
The beautiful stranger is on his promontory, David on his much lower one. The boy stares down at the water. David is riveted by him, he looks like a figure from a romantic novel, sad and isolated.

Marko taps Tommy on the shoulder, and they look at David, who is still gazing at the stranger. They know. 

Marko and Tommy grin goofily at each other, and Paul whistles playfully, a mischievous glint in his eye. 

The brunet turns suddenly and looks right at David, who is caught staring. But he doesn’t look away. The stranger does but, then he looks back. Their eyes meet across the space of the deck, between worlds. 

David sees a much older man, rigid and stone-faced, come up behind the boy and take his arm. They argue in pantomime. The boy storms away and the man, likely father, goes after him, disappearing along the A deck promenade. David still stares after him.

“Forget it, Boyo.” Says Tommy. “You’d as like have angels flying outta yer arse as get next to the likes of him.”

David snaps his sketchbook closed and gives Tommy a good whack with it, causing him to jump back with a chuckle. He raises his hands in mock surrender. David flips him the bird as he carries on sketching.

“D’you make any money with yer drawings?” Tommy asks curiously, taking a puff from his cigarette as he leans back against the railing. He tilts his head as he scrutinises the blond’s work-in-progress. 

David scoffs and shakes his head, never taking his attention away from the paper as he replies. “Hardly.”

“Ah,” Tommy plucks his cigarette from his mouth and exhales a stream of smoke. “Cryin’ shame.” He tosses the stubby remainder of his cigarette over the railing. “They’re quite good.” He casts a glance towards the subject of David’s sketch. The little girl, Cora, beams. She points to the sky, delighting in the way the clouds have begun to shift from pink to orange to purple.

Paul and Marko have taken to seeing who can spit farthest from the deck, while Dwayne looks on like a disappointed father. He scrunches his nose up as Paul’s spectoration falls short and a glob of spit trails down his chin. Marko barks out a laugh. David shoots the duo a glare. “Will you two cut it out?” 

“Ah, don’t be such a wet blanket, Davey.” Paul jeers, knowing full-well the nickname ruffles David’s feathers.

“Hey, you better watch it, Buddy Roe.” Warns David as he points an accusatory finger at the lion-maned blond, who raises his hands into the sky in surrender. 

“Alright, yeah, sure.” Paul yields. “I was just razzing ya, bud.”

David’s brows shoot up. “Yeah?” He asks sarcastically. He chucks a lump of Conté crayon at Paul’s forehead, it bounces off and skitters onto the deck. 

“What the hell?” Paul rubs at his forehead, unwittingly smudging the mark left behind by the Conté crayon. Marko bites the inside of his cheek in an attempt to hold back the laughter bubbling up from the pit of his belly.

Tommy chuckles quietly as he twirls his Bowler hat in his hands. “Well,” He starts. “It’s been grand, but I’m knackered. G’night, lads.” He nods to the boys before placing his hat back atop his mop of curls and taking his leave. Paul and Marko wave after him. 

“Think I’m gonna turn in too.” Dwayne says to David after a minute. “You gonna stay out here for a while?” He asks. 

David nods. “Yeah.” He looks up in search of Paul and Marko, whom he’s coined ‘The Destructive Duo’, but they seem to have already snuck off. 

“Alright, well,” Dwayne pats his shoulder. “Goodnight.”


	4. Chapter 4

David is lying back on one of the benches, gazing up at the myriad of stars peppering the blackened night sky. They blaze gloriously overhead. He is thinking nebulous artist thoughts and smoking a cigarette. 

Hearing something, he turns as the stranger from earlier that day darts up the stairs from the well deck. There are only the two of them on the stern deck, save for Quartermaster Rowe, who is 20-feet above them on the docking bridge catwalk. The mysterious brunet doesn’t appear to see David in the shadows, and he runs right past him.

“You ain’t thinking of jumping, are you?” David can see tear tracks on the boy’s cheeks in a faint glow from the stern running lights, and he notices the way he lingers beside the stern. He raises his eyebrows expectantly. 

The stranger shakes his head with a scoff and leans back against the rear railing. “It isn’t really any of your concern, is it?” He throws back, avoiding David’s gaze. A curl falls across his forehead. 

David shrugs his shoulders coolly. “That depends on what you choose to do next, pal.” He takes a puff from his cigarette. 

The brunet shoots a glance over his shoulder at the churning black water below. “So, were you thinking of throwing yourself overboard, or…?” David trails off. “Because if you do, I’m gonna have to dive in after you.” 

“Don’t be crazy. You’ll be killed.” The brunet replies. 

David removes his jacket. “I’m a good swimmer, trust me.” He says as he begins to unlace his left shoe.

“The fall alone would kill you.” The taller boy counters. 

David chuckles. “It would definitely hurt. I’m not saying it wouldn’t. Y’know, to be honest, I’m a lot more worried about that water being so goddamn cold.” 

The brunet looks down, the reality of his consideration sinks in. “Yeah?” He asks. “...How cold?

“I’d say freezing. Maybe a couple of degrees over.” David begins to unlace his right show now, his gaze never leaving the other boy, who swallows thickly. 

“Water that cold…” David begins, whistling. “Like right down there… I tell ya, it hits you like a thousand knives stabbing you all over your body. You can’t breathe, you can’t think, at least, not about anything but the pain. Which,” David huffs. “Is why I’m not looking forward to jumping in after you. It’d put a real damper on the evening. But, y’know, like I said, it all depends on you.” 

“You’re crazy, pal.” 

“With all do respect, mister,” David begins. “I’m not the one thinking about tossing myself off the ship.” He slides a step closer, like he’s moving up on a spooked horse, his hands casually stuffed in his pockets. 

The stranger blows out a long breath and nods. David tosses his spent cigarette over the railing and holds out his hand. “David Powers.” 

“Michael Emerson.” 

“Gotta hand it to you, Michael, you really know how to make an introduction.” Michael laughs. “Yeah, I guess so—“

“Mike!” A voice interrupts him mid-sentence. “Hey, Mike! Oof—!“ The owner of said voice runs smack dab into David’s back like a battering ram. Michael cringes.

“Sam! You really gotta watch where you’re going!” He admonishes. “You’re gonna take somebody out one of these days.”

The battering ram, or rather, boy, rolls his eyes and blurts out a quick apology. “Sorry! Anyway, I’ve been looking around everywhere for you! You ditched me at that boring dinner!” 

Michael frowns. “Sorry, Sammy, I really wasn’t in the mood for another one of our father’s hunting stories.” 

“Oh, yeah?” The younger boy, Sam, retorts. ‘He must be Michael’s younger brother…’ David thinks to himself. “Neither was I, Mike, but look who got stuck listening to it!” Sam glances at David and raises his eyebrows. “Who’s he?” He asks not too subtly. 

Michael clears his throat. “Sam,” He gestures to David. “David. David, this is my brother, Sam.” 

Sam appraises the flaxen-haired drifter for a moment before deciding he must be alright if Michael’s talking to him. “Nice to meet ya!” He breaks into a grin. He doesn’t seem to mind that David is clearly of the lower class variety. 

David gives the youngster a reciprocal nod. “You too, kid.” He breathes out a sigh and looks up at the starry night sky. A shooting star cuts an arc in the darkness.  
“Well, I think I’m gonna turn in for the night if you don’t mind, boys.” He says after a couple of seconds. 

“Oh, right,” Michael inclines his head to the blond, who returns the gesture. “Nice meeting you, Michael, Sam.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets and turns his back to the brothers. 

“David!” David stops and twists halfway round to look at Michael. 

“Would you, maybe, like to come to dinner tomorrow night? You don’t have to if you’re not interested…” Somewhere in his brain, Michael wonders why he has to be so awkward. 

David smirks. “I ain’t in the habit of rejecting a free meal.”


	5. Chapter 5

Michael walks into the sunlight. He is neatly dressed. He unlatches the gate to go down to third-class. The steerage girls on the deck stop what they’re doing and stare at him as he makes his way to the third-class general room. The social centre of steerage life. 

It is stark in comparison to first-class, but is a loud, boisterous place. There are mothers with babies, kids running between benches yelling in several different languages and being scolded in several more. There are old women yelling, men playing chess, girls doing needlepoint and reading dime novels. There is even an upright piano, and Tommy Ryan is noodling around it, an ever-present cigarette dangling from his lips.

Three boys, shrieking and shouting, are scrambling around, chasing a rat under the benches. They are trying to trap it with a shoe, and they are causing general havoc. 

David is playing with 6-year-old Cora Cartmell, drawing funny faces together in his sketchbook. He mimics one of the silly faces the little girl has doodled and sticks his tongue out, drawing a series of giggles out of her. 

Paul is struggling to get a conversation going with an attractive Norwegian girl, Helga Dahl, sitting with her family at a table across the room. Helga’s eye is caught by something. Paul looks, does a double take and David, curious, follows their gaze to see Michael, coming toward them. 

The activity in the room stops, a hush falls. Michael’s cheeks redden and he feels suddenly self-conscious as the steerage passengers stare openly at this prince, some with resentment, others with awe. He spots David and gives a little smile and a wave, walking straight to him. David rises to meet Michael, smiling.

“David...” Marko and Tommy are floored. It’s like the slipper fitting Cinderella. David chuckles. “Hello, again.” He says. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Could I talk to you... alone, David?” Michael questions. 

“Uh, yeah… Sure.” David replies. He motions Michael ahead and follows. He glances over his shoulder to the boys, one eyebrow raised, as he walks out with the brunet, leaving behind a wake of stunned silence.

David and Michael walk side by side. They pass people reading and talking in steamer chairs, some of whom glance curiously at the mismatched duo. The blond feels out of place in his rough clothes. They are both awkward, for different reasons.

“David, I—“

“David... I feel like such an idiot. It took me all morning to get up the nerve to face you.” Michael admits, causing the blond to shrug coolly. “Well, here you are.”

Michael scoffs. “Yeah, here I am. I, uh, I want to thank you for what you did. Last night. Not just for... for talking me out of an incredibly stupid decision. But for your discretion. Look, I know what you’re thinking! Poor little rich boy. What does he know about misery?”

“For a minute there, yeah.” David admits. “But then I started thinking, ‘wonder what could’a happened to hurt this boy so much he thought he had no way out.”

“I don't know... it wasn't just one thing. It was everything. It was them.” Michael gazes at the first class drones. “And their whole world. And I was trapped in it, like a grubby little insect in amber.” He says. “I just had to get away... just run and run and run... and then I was at the back rail and there was no more ship... even the Titanic wasn't big enough. Not enough to get away from them. I was so angry. I'll show them. They'll be sorry! That’s what was going through my mind.”

“Uh-huh...” David nods, his eyes gleaming with humour. “They'll be sorry. 'Course you'll be dead.” He inclines his head. Michael shakes his. “God, I’m so stupid.” His eyes catch the sketchbook tucked under David’s arm. ‘Change the subject, Michael…’

“‘Are you an artist or something?”

The question is apparently rhetorical because Michael has already snatched the book. David has half the mind to kick him in the shin, but he stays his ground. 

“Or something...”

Michael sits on a deck chair and opens the sketchbook. David’s sketches are fantastic, each one an expressive little bit of humanity; an old woman’s hands, a sleeping man, a father and daughter at the rail. The faces are luminous and alive. His book is a celebration of the human condition.

Michael whistles as he turns the page. He has come upon a series of nudes. Though he is transfixed by the languid beauty David has created. His nudes are soulful, real, with expressive hands and eyes. They feel more like portraits than studies of the human form... almost uncomfortably intimate. Michael blushes, raising the book as some strollers go by. He studies one drawing in particular, a woman posed half in sunlight, half in shadow. Her hands lie at her chin, one furled and one open like a flower, languid and graceful. The drawing is like an Alfred Steiglitz print of Georgia O'Keefe.

“You’re really talented, David. You are. You really... see people.” Michael says, looking up from the sketchbook. 

“I see you.” Replies David with one of his trademark chuckles. There is that piercing gaze again.

Some time passes. Michael and David stroll aft, past people lounging on deck chairs in the slanting late-afternoon light. Stewards scurry to serve tea or hot cocoa. Painted with orange light, David and Michael lean forward against the A-deck rail aft, shoulder to shoulder, the ship's lights blinking to life.

“Say we go there sometime...” Says Michael. “To that boardwalk in Santa Carla you’ve told me so much about... hell, even if we only ever just talk about it.” 

David shakes his head. “Alright, we're going. We'll drink cheap beer and go on the rollercoaster until we throw up and we'll even go on the Carousel. And we’ll ride horses on the beach.” He says. “Right in the surf... but you have to ride like a cowboy, none of that stupid fancy shit.” He points a finger at Michael, giving him a pointed look. “You know exactly what I’m talkin’ about.”

Michael scoffs humorously. He looks to the horizon. “And teach me to spit too. Like a normal person. Why should only poor guys be able to spit? It's unfair.”

“Ah, it's a cinch, Michael. Watch and learn.” David spits over the railing, and it arcs out over the water. “Your turn.” 

Michael screws up his mouth and spits. A pathetic little bit of foamy spittle which mostly runs down his chin before falling off into the water. David snorts. 

”That… was quite possibly the most pitiful thing I’ve ever seen. Here, like this... you gotta hawk it down... HHHNNNK!... then roll it on your tongue, up to the front of your mouth, like thith, then a big breath and PLOOOW!! See the range on that thing?!” He points into the distance. 

Michael watches, though he seems slightly disgusted. He goes through the steps. Hawks it down, etc. David coaches him through it while doing the steps himself. Michael lets it fly. So does David. Two comets of gob fly out over the water. “Bravo!” David praises, clapping his hands. Michael turns to him, his face bathed in humour. Suddenly he blanches. David sees Michael’s expression and he turns.

His father, mother, Sam, and a woman named Molly Brown have been watching them hawking lugees. Michael clears his throat awkwardly. “Uh, David, this is my father, mother, ‘course you’ve already met Sam, and this is Molly Brown.” 

Michael’s father gives David a snobbish once-over and scrunches his nose up in thinly veiled disgust. There’s some spittle running down the blond’s chin, though he doesn’t know it. Sam snorts and gives David a pointed look as he swipes at his own chin. 

“It’s nice to see that Michael’s making some friends.” Mr. Emerson forces out. He slides past, continuing further down the deck without giving David so much as a second glance. Michael cringes, looking between his friend and his departing family. “I’ve gotta go, but I’ll see you later tonight.” He scurries off. 

The only person left behind is the Brown woman. “Do you have any idea of what you’re doin’, mister?” 

Davis settles back against the railing, bending his arms at the elbow and propping them up like he’s without a care in the world. Which he is, all things considered. He reaches up and plucks a cigarette from behind his ear, shrugs and sticks it between his teeth. “Haven’t the foggiest…”

“Uh-huh…” Molly nods, her large feathered hat shifts a little bit. “I thought so. Well, you’re about to go into the snake pit.” She pauses as she takes a gander at his lived-in apparel. “And what are you planning to wear?” 

David takes a leisurely puff from his cigarette, exhaling a stream of smoke off to the side. “Let me guess, my attire ain’t up to standard?”

Molly sighs. “You said it, sonny.” She takes a moment before hooking her arm around David’s elbow. “C’mon.” She leads him away down the deck.


	6. Chapter 6

“Ah-ha!” Molly takes a step back and claps her hands together. “I was right! You and my son are just about the same size!” 

David takes stock of himself in the full length mirror leant against the wood-panelled wall in front of him. He brushes his hands down the lapels of the tuxedo jacket that Molly has lent to him. “Yeah, just about.” The suit is only slightly too big, but it’s not terribly noticeable.

“Ha-ha!” Molly beams like a proud mother. “You shine up like a new penny!”

There is a purple sky, shot with orange, in the west. There are drifting strains of classical music. By Edwardian standards David looks badass. Dashing in his borrowed white-tie outfit, right down to his pearl studs. Thanks to Molly. A steward bows smartly and opens the door to the First Class Entrance. “Good evening, sir.” The man greets. David plays the role smoothly. He nods with just the right degree of disdain.

David steps in and his breath is taken away by the splendor spread out before him. Overhead is the enormous glass dome, with a crystal chandelier at it’s centre. Sweeping down six stories is the First Class Grand Staircase, the epitome of the opulent naval architecture of the time. And the people; the women in their floor length dresses, elaborate hairstyles and abundant jewelry... the gentlemen in evening dress, standing with one hand at the small of the back, talking quietly.

David descends to A deck. Several men nod a perfunctory greeting. He nods back, keeping it simple. 

He feels like a spy. Michael’s father comes down the stairs, with Mrs. Emerson on his arm, covered in jewelry. They both walk right past him, neither one recognising him. Mr. Emerson even nods at him, one gent to another. But David barely has time to be amused. Because just behind the couple on the stairs is Michael, a vision in red and black, his exquisite black tailored suit complimenting him perfectly, around his neck is a beautiful crimson red silk cravat tie. David is hypnotized by his appearance.

Michael approaches David, who imitates a gentlemen's stance, hand behind his back. Michael flushes with a small bit of laughter, beaming noticeably. He can't take his eyes off the blond. 

Michael strides towards his father, David at his side. “Father, surely you remember David.” 

The Emerson patriarch turns, he’s caught off guard. “I didn't recognize you.” He says, studying David. “Amazing! You could almost pass for a gentleman.”

David has to swallow down any choice words building on the tip of his tongue and instead meets the man’s patronising comment with a tight lipped smile. 

They encounter Molly Brown, looking good in a beaded dress, in her own busty broad-shouldered way. Molly grins when she sees David. As they are going into the dining saloon she walks next to him, speaking low; “Ain't nothin' to it, is there, darlin’?” She asks with a smile, patting him softly on the back. 

“Yeah.” He says. “You just dress like a pallbearer and keep your nose up.”

“Remember, the only thing they respect is money, so just act like you've got a lot of it and you're in the club.” She tells David quietly. 

As they enter the swirling throng, Michael leans close to him, pointing out several notables. “There's the Countess Rothes. And that's John Jacob Astor... the richest man on the ship. His little wifey Madeleine, there, is my age and in a delicate condition. See how she's trying to hide it. Quite the scandal.” He smirks, nodding towards another couple. “And over there, that's Sir Cosmo and Lucile, Lady Duff-Gordon. She designs naughty lingerie, among her many talents. Very popular with the royals.” He winks playfully and clicks his tongue. 

Mr. Emerson and his wife become engrossed in a conversation with Cosmo Duff-Gordon and Colonel Gracie, while Sam sneaks away. Michael picots  
David smoothly, to show him another couple, dressed impeccably. “And that's Benjamin Guggenheim and his mistress, Madame Aubert. Mrs. Guggenheim is at home with the children, of course.”

The entourage strolls toward the dining saloon, where they run into the Astor's going through the ornate double doors. Michael turns. “J.J., Madeleine, I'd like you to meet my friend, David.”

J.J shakes David’s hand firmly. “Good to meet you, David.” Madeleine Astor appraises David and whispers girlishly to Michael, who isn’t the least bit interested. She gushes about how handsome the blond is, in his own roguish way. 

The dining saloon is like a ballroom at a palace, alive and lit by a constellation of chandeliers, full of elegantly dressed people and beautiful music from bandleader Wallace Hartley’s small orchestra. Michael and David enter and move across the room to their table, Mr. and Mrs. Emerson ahead of them, and Sam and Molly beside them. 

“Tell us of the accommodations in steerage, David. I hear they're quite good on this ship.” David is seated opposite of Michael, who is flanked by his parents and brother. Also at the table are Thomas Andrews, Molly Brown, Bruce Ismay, Colonel Gracie, the Countess, Guggenheim, Madame Aubert, and the Astors.

David scoffs softly. “The best I've seen, sir. Hardly any rats, not that I mind ‘em anymore. My pal, Marko, has even made a couple of the little critters his pets.” 

Michael motions surreptitiously for David to take his napkin off his plate. Which he does. Mr. Emerson turns to the dinner party with amusement. “David is joining us from third class. He appears to be a friend of my son, Michael’s.” He looks to David, as if to a child now. 

“This is foie gras. It's goose liver.”

Whispers are exchanged and David becomes the subject of furtive glances. Now they’re all feeling terribly liberal and dangerous. A waiter bows beside David, a silver tray balanced precariously on his arm. 

“How do you take your caviar, sir?” He asks. 

“No caviar for me, thanks. Never did like it much.” David glances at Michael, pokerfaced, and he smirks. If not for the masses, he would’ve winked.

“And where exactly do you live, David?” Michael’s father asks.

“Well, right now my address is the RMS Titanic. After that, ‘guess I'm on God's good humor.” He replies. 

“Well, you’re quite a tenacious young man, aren’t you, David?” A voice beside him says. David looks to his left where his eyes land on a smart-looking middle-aged man wearing glasses. “Forgive me.” The man adds. “My name is Max. Max Lawrence.” He holds out his hand to be shook, which David accepts. 

“And you find that sort of rootless existence appealing, do you?” Mr. Emerson follows. 

“Well... it's a big world, and I want to see it all before I go.” David begins. “I’ve been on my own since I was five years old, a couple of pals excluded, you can’t wait around, you never know what cards you’re gonna get dealt next. You gotta take life as it comes at you. Make each day count.” He says. Beside him, Max watches intently. There’s something strange in his eyes. 

Molly raises her glass in a salute. “Well said, David.”

“Yes,” Max agrees, raising his own glass. “Well done.”

Now, after a bit, dessert has been served and a waiter arrives with cigars in a humidor on a wheeled cart. The men start clipping ends and lighting. 

Michael looks to David. “Next it'll be brandies in the Smoking Room.” He says in a whisper. “Now they retreat into a cloud of smoke and congratulate each other on being masters of the universe.” He looks rather amused at the prospect. 

“Joining us, David, Michael? You don't want to stay out here with the women, do you?” Asks Colonel Gracie.

“No thanks. I'm heading back.” David replies. 

“Do you have to go, David?” Michael speaks, to which David chuckles. 

“The clock has struck twelve, Michael. Time for my coach to turn back into a pumpkin.” He leans over to shake Michael’s hand and slips a tiny folded piece of paper into his palm. 

Mr. Emerson, scowling, watches carefully as David walks across the enormous dining room. Michael surreptitiously opens the note below table level. It reads: "Make it count, Michael. Meet me at the clock".

Michael crosses the A-Deck foyer, sighting David at the landing above. Overhead is the crystal dome. David has his back to him, studying the ornate clock with it’s carved figures of Honor and Glory. It softly strikes the hour. Michael climbs the sweeping staircase toward him and he turns, sees him, smirking. “How about we go to a real party?”


	7. Chapter 7

The third-class general room is crawling and alive with music, laughter and raucous carrying on. A band is gathered near the upright piano, honking out lively stomping music on fiddle, accordion and tambourine.   
People of all ages are dancing, drinking beer and wine, smoking, laughing, even brawling. 

Tommy hands a pint of stout to Paul, who lingers beside him along with Marko, and he hoists it. David meanwhile, dances with 6-year-old Cora Cartmell, or tries to, with her standing on his feet.

Paul catches sight of Helga Dahl across the buzzing room and gulps down his stout. A bit of it trickles down his chin and neck, and dampens his shirt collar. He sets his empty glass down on top of the upright piano. 

“Go on, man! Go ask her for a dance!” Marko presses, giving him an encouraging slap on the shoulder. 

Paul nods his head as he bounces on his feet. “Yeah, yeah!” He replies. Marko barks out a laugh and pushes him into the partying masses as a new song begins. 

David emerges from the crowd, holding Cora’s hand, and coolly approaches Michael, who sits at a small wooden table nursing a half empty glass of lukewarm stout. He nods his head towards the mass of dancing bodies. “Let’s see what you’re made of Michael Emerson!”

Little Cora looks up at David with big puppy dog eyes. “You’re still my best girl, Cora.” He reassures her. She scampers off. 

Michael opens and then closes his mouth. “I don’t know any of the steps.” He tells David as he takes a quick look around the boisterous common area. 

“Yeah?” The blond throws back. “And what makes you think I know the steps?” He smirks and nods at the crowd. “C’mon, Michael…” The music begins to swell. Before he’s able to protest, David grabs onto Michael’s sleeve and pulls him to his feet. “It’s sorta like square dancing!” He shouts over the commotion. 

The scene around them is rowdy and rollicking, a picture of absolute chaos. A table gets knocked over as a drunk crashes into it. And in the middle of it Michael dances beside David. The steps are fast and he shines with sweat. A space opens around them, and people watch them, clapping as the band plays faster and faster. Meanwhile, Paul and Helga dance, whirling one another around like tops. Dancing appears to have eliminated the need for a common language.

The energetic tune ends in a mad rush. David steps away from Michael with a flourish, allowing him to take a bow. Exhilarated and slightly tipsy, Michael does so. 

Everyone laughs and applauds. Michael is a hit with the steerage folks, who’ve never had a boy of his class party with them. 

They move to a crowded table, flushed and sweaty. David plucks Paul’s cigarette from his mouth and takes a big drag. He’s feeling extra cocky tonight. Paul is grinning, holding hands with Helga. 

Everybody else is dancing again, and Bjorn Gundersen crashes through the crowd into Tommy, who sloshes his beer over Marko’s head. “Ah, damn it!” He rubs at his eyes. “Shit, it burns!”

Tommy lunges, grabbing Bjorn and wheeling him around. “You stupid bastard!” Bjorn comes around, his fists coming up... and David leaps into the middle of it, pushing them apart. “Boys, boys!” He interrupts the pair just as things are about to kick off. “Did I ever tell you the one about the Swede and the Irishman going to the whorehouse?” 

Tommy stands there, all piss and vinegar, his chest puffed up like the Big Bad Wolf, and then he grins and claps Bjorn on the shoulder as if they hadn’t just been about to kill one another over a spilled beer. 

David swipes a full glass of stout up from the crowded table in front of him where a heated arm-wrestle takes place between Dwayne and a rugged Scot. Dwayne gains the upper hand and slams the man’s arm down against the tabletop, causing the myriad of pint glasses to rattle and clank. Some of them fall over, sloshing beer onto the floor. 

David claps his hands together ebulliently. “Attaboy!” Michael stands beside him, looking on in amusement. 

“Hey, Mike!” A familiar screech cuts through the liveliness. David turns and hums ironically, he nudges Michael. “Looks like your kid brother found us out!” He watches in entertainment as Sam pushes through the rejoicing throngs, ducking under swinging arms. 

Sam’s silk bow tie hangs around his neck and his hair is tousled. He looks around as he stops in front of David and Michael, and grins. “This place is great!”

“Alright! Two outta three, two outta three!” The Scot across from Dwayne raises his voice above the wailing of the fiddle and bagpipes. Dwayne cracks a grin and leans over the table to shake the man’s hand. 

A jaunty melody kicks off with a shout and David grabs onto Michael’s arm, dragging him towards the centre of the room. Sam whoops and claps his hands. “Yeah!” 

“Can we deal ya in, laddie?” The Scot across from Dwayne prompts Sam, tapping two fingers against a row of playing cards fanned out atop the table. He takes a gulp of his stout and swipes an arm across his ginger-stubbled chin when some of it trickles from the corner of his mouth.

Sam looks down at his Oxfords and then back up at the man. He shrugs his shoulders and nods his head. “Um, yeah, sure, why not?” He slides into an empty chair. “So…” Sam bites the inside of his cheek. “How do you play?” 

“It’s a simple game of poker, laddie. Object of the game is to have the best hand. Why don’t you sit back and watch a round? And then we’ll deal ya in…” Sam nods. 

The next day is Sunday April 14, 1912. 

Sunlight splashes across the Emerson family’s promenade. Michael and Sam slouch in their chairs.  
They are having breakfast with their parents in silence.   
The tension is palpable. Young Trudy Bolt, in her maid's uniform, pours the coffee and water, and goes inside. 

“Sit up, the both of you. That’s no way for table manners.” Mr. Emerson scolds. 

“I’m sorry, I’m tired.” Michael mumbles. His father looks at him sternly. “Yes. You boys’ activities below decks were no doubt exhausting.” 

At this, Michael and Sam blanch. “How do you—?”

“It doesn’t matter how I know. But that boy is clearly a bad influence on you, the both of you, and you’re not to see him again.”

Sam visibly deflates, looking down at the table meekly and beginning to pick at the tablecloth, while Michael brazenly challenges their father's authority. 

“Why?” He shoots back. “Because he’s not some big shot with fancy clothes and piles of money?”


	8. Chapter 8

At the divine service, Captain Smith is leading a group in the hymn "Almighty Father Strong To Save." Michael and Sam stand beside one another, their back straight and their chins up, begrudgingly singing along. They’ve been kept under their parents’ thumb all morning long. 

Mr. Emerson’s goon, Lovelace, stands well back, keeping an eye on the two boys, Michael in particular. 

He notices a commotion at the entry doors where David has been halted there by two finely dressed stewards. He is dressed in his third class clothes, and stands there, hat in hand, looking out of place. One of the stewards gives an exasperated sigh. “Look, you, you're not supposed to be in here.”

“I was just here last night...” David retorts. “Don't you remember?” He sees Lovelace coming toward him and gestures. “Hey, ‘Mr. Dark And Stormy’ here’ll tell you.”

The approaching man begins to speak with a rather noted tone. “I’m afraid, young man…” He trails off as he gives David a snobbish once-over. “...That your presence here is no longer appropriate.”

David’s face hardens and he takes a step forward. “Oh, yeah? And why’s that?” 

Lovelace hums in conceited amusement. “You hold a third class ticket. There really isn’t any other reason needed, is there?” He smiles this self-absorbed smile. 

“Gentlemen...” Lovelace sighs as if this is the most tiresome thing in the world. “Please see that this boy gets back where he belongs.” He gives one twenty to each of the stewards. “And that he stays there.”

The stewards’ eyes light up. “Yes sir!” They turn to David, grabbing him by the arms. “Come along you.” 

Michael doesn’t see David being hustled out. He continues to sing with the rest of First-class. “O’ hear us when we cry to thee for those in peril on the sea.”

Hours later, on the deck a man is playing with his son, who is spinning a top with a string. The man’s tweed scally cap is sitting all by it’s lonesome on a deck chair nearby. 

David slinks out from behind one of the huge deck cranes and calmly picks up the tweed cap, and walks away, brushing his hair back from his face with saliva. He puts the hat on at a jaunty angle.

On the bridge, Harold Bride, the 21-year-old Junior Wireless Operator, hustles in and skirts around Andrews' tour group to hand a Marconigram to Captain Smith. “Another ice warning, sir. This one’s from the "Baltic.” He says.

Smith takes it. “Thank you, Bride.” He glances at the message then nonchalantly puts it in his pocket. He nods reassuringly to Mr. Emerson and his group. “Not to worry, it's quite normal for this time of year. In fact, we're speeding up. I've just ordered the last boilers lit.”

Andrews scowls slightly before politely motioning the group toward the door. They exit just as Second Officer Charles Lightoller emerges from the chartroom, stopping next to First Officer Murdoch. “Did we ever find those binoculars for the lookouts?” He inquires. 

“Haven't seen them since Southampton.” Says First Officer Murdoch. 

Now on the deck, Andrews leads the group back from the bridge along the boat deck. Sam looks to the man. “Hey, Mr. Andrews, I was doing some numbers in my head,” He says. “And with the number of lifeboats times the capacity you mentioned before, there don’t seem to be enough for everyone aboard.” 

“About half, actually. Samuel, you miss nothing, do you...? In fact, I put in these new type davits, which can take an extra row of boats here.” He gestures along the deck. “But it was thought, by some... that the deck would look too cluttered. So I was overruled.” 

Andrews keeps his eyes on the youngest Emerson brother. “Not to worry, Samual. I have built you a good ship, strong and true. She's all the lifeboat you need.” 

As they are passing Boat 7, a “gentleman” turns from the rail and walks up behind the group. It is David. He taps Michael on the arm and he turns, his mouth gaping like a fish out of water. He motions and Michael cuts away from the group toward a door which he holds open. They duck into the gymnasium. 

David closes the door behind him, and glances out through the ripple-glass window to the starboard rail, where the gym instructor chats up a woman who is riding the stationary bike. He and Michael are alone in the room.

“Look, David, I’m not supposed to be talking to you.” 

“C’mon, Michael…” David smirks. “Live a little, huh?”

Michael rolls his eyes as the right corner of his mouth lifts upwards. “Yeah, sure…” 

David throws his arm across the brunet’s shoulders. “Ain’t nothin’ to it, is there, Michael?” He nods his head towards the door. “C’mon, let’s get outta here.” 

The atmosphere in third class is far more laidback tonight. A man taps out a simple melody on the piano in the corner, while others drink from flasks and smoke, and women knit and tell stories to their youngsters. 

“Davey!” Paul comes up and gives David a slap on the shoulder. Marko lingers at his side like a pup, while Dwayne hangs back, idly chatting to Tommy while he peruses the pages of his book. He grins. “Hey, Mikey!” He throws his arms around the both of them. “Gonna be honest, didn’t think we’d see you again, bud.”

Michael shrugs. “Well, here I am.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets and rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet. David side-eyes him and chuckles. 

“Good to know you got some brains, this is where all the fun people are anyway!” Blurts Marko, he elbows Tommy in the side, causing him to cough up a cloud of cigarette smoke. 

“Oi!” He elbows Marko back, nabbing him right in the gut. 

Dwayne looks up from his book and stares at the two with an expression resembling exhaustion. A part of him wonders how he’s managed to put up with Paul and Marko for so long, and now he has to deal with one more obnoxious troublemaker? They’re like three sticks of dynamite, and not in a good way. 

David’s face doesn’t look much different from Dwayne’s on the surface, aside from the glimmer of amusement lurking within his icy blue eyes. He pulls the borrowed scally cap from his head and plucks a cigarette from behind his left ear. Paul strikes a match and holds it up to the tip of his cigarette, lighting it. 

“Thank you.” David mutters around the end. 

Paul claps him on the shoulder with a grin. “Sure thing, bud.” He tosses the box of matches up into the air and catches it back in his hand before pocketing it again. 

David takes a drag from his cigarette before removing it from his mouth and offering it to Michael, who shrugs his shoulders in a “why not” sort of way and accepts it.   
Heat rises in his cheeks as he catches sight of David watching him, almost expectantly. He understands why the blond is watching him only after he takes a drag. He chokes on a cloud of smoke. “Holy… shit. How can you smoke that?!” 

The blond chuckles as Michael hands the cigarette back to him, his face screwed up in displeasure. “It’s not for everyone.” He replies smugly. 

Michael shoves him playfully. “Bullshit!” David can’t help but crack a smile, and takes another puff. He turns and walks towards Dwayne, whose legs are kicked up on top of one of the common area’s large wooden tables. David’s beloved sketchbook rests atop his lap. 

Dwayne picks it up and hands it to the blond without looking up from that book he’s always reading. 

David returns to stand beside Michael, his sketchbook nestled underneath his arm. Michael looks down at it. “Drawn anything new, Mr. Artiste?” He asks curiously. 

The blond raises his eyebrows and hands the book off to him. Michael opens it up, flipping through a couple of pages, and stops when he comes across a new piece; A sketch of an immigrant mother reading to her two children. 

“Wow…” The subjects’ faces and body language are so full of life that it feels as if they could jump from the page at any moment. 

“Y’know,” David begins all of a sudden, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall beside Michael. “I could draw you…” A smirk plays on his lips. 

Michael stammers, his cheeks going beet red. “Uh—,” He clears his throat awkwardly, causing David to snort in amusement. Paul and Marko observe from afar and make faces at one another, wiggling their brows up and down suggestively. Michael looks at David, at his lips and his eyes and… him, and nods. “Yeah, sure.” 

The blond’s smirk grows. “Great.” 

“Do you want to draw me here or…? I mean, is there anywhere in particular you want to draw me?” Michael manages. He mentally slaps himself, he must look like such an idiot. 

David chuckles softly as he pushes himself away from the wall and uncrosses his arms. “Why don’t we go to yours?” He suggests nonchalantly. “Wouldn’t want any of these idiots screwing things up, now would we?” 

“Hey!” Paul, Marko and Tommy all say in unison.


	9. Chapter 9

Upon entering the Emerson Family’s suite, David is overwhelmed by the opulence of the room. He sets his sketchbook and drawing materials on the marble table. Michael turns to him. “Is, the um, is this light okay?”

“Hm?” David asks distractedly. 

“Don't artists need good light?” Michael replies. The other boy clears his throat and nods his head, stepping further into the large parlour. “So,” The brunet begins, awkward as ever. He tugs at the collar of his shirt. 

David chuckles in this obscenely attractive way that has Michael questioning his existence. “Take it easy, Michael…” 

“So, ‘there any particular way you’d like to be drawn?” He questions as he scans over the room. He runs his hand along the fireplace mantel, which is fashioned of maple wood, and carved in an ornate baroque style. 

Michael’s cheeks heat up. “What about like one of the girls you drew?” He suggests. David’s brows shoot up. And if he didn’t know any better, Michael could swear that he noticed a mild blush creep onto the blond’s face. 

“Sure, if that’s what you want…” David agrees after a few moments of silence, raising an arm and carding his fingers through his hair. He fetches his sketchbook and brings it to a small table where he begins to lay out his pencils and charcoal sticks like surgical tools. 

“When you say “like one of the girls I drew”, does that suggest a lack of clothing...?” David asks smugly as he sharpens one of his Conté crayons with a scalpel. 

“I don’t know,” Michael snarks. “Do you want it to?” 

David pauses in his sharpening and narrows his eyes. 

Michael feels a swell of pride, and he’s fairly certain that he already knows what David’s answer would be. He breaks into a grin, watching in amusement as the blond goes back to his prior task of sharpening his Conté crayon. “‘Didn’t peg you for the sheepish type.” 

David glances up for barely a second, and Michael thinks he catches a hint of amusement in his eyes, but he’s not sure. He huffs out a short laugh and turns his back to the preoccupied blond. “So,” He starts as he begins to work at the buttons on his shirt. “Have you—“

“Have I ever done male nudes before?” David finishes the question, stowing away the scalpel he’d been using earlier. A fine dusting of coal black charcoal powder coats his fingers. “No, this’ll be the first.” 

He freezes like a metaphorical deer in headlights when he looks up. He looks so stricken, it’s almost comical. Michael smirks ever so slightly as he reclines back on the velvet sofa at the centre of the room, completely nude. 

“You’re the expert, so just tell me when it looks right.” The brunet comments. David blinks owlishly. One could argue that he was in shock. 

“Um…” The blond clears his throat. “Just, uh, bend your left leg a little, and lower your head. Eyes to me. Yeah.” He motions and begins to sketch. He drops his pencil for a moment and Michael stifles a laugh. 

“Are you blushing?” Michael asks. David is sweating. 

David’s icy eyes come up to look at Michael over the top edge of his sketchpad; Despite his nervousness, he draws with sure strokes, and what emerges is quite possibly the best thing he’s done. Michael’s pose is languid, his hands beautiful, and his electrifying eyes radiate his energy. After an hour, maybe two, David is signing and dating the drawing. 

Michael, once again dressed and blushing like a tomato, gazes at the drawing. David has x-rayed his soul. David sneaks a glance at Michael, and then Michael looks at him. For a moment all they do is stare at one another. 

And then Michael leans forward. 

They kiss timidly for a couple of seconds, and David brings his hand up to rest it against Michael’s cheek, while Michael’s fingers slide into his tousled hair. 

Titanic glides across an unnatural sea, black and calm as a pool of oil. The ship's lights are mirrored almost perfectly on the black water. A shooting star slices a bright line across the twinkling heavens.

On the bridge, Captain Smith peers out across the blackness ahead of the ship. Quartermaster Hitchens brings him a cup of hot tea with lemon, which steams in the bitter cold of the open bridge. Second Officer Lightoller is next to him, staring out at the sheet of black glass the Atlantic has become. “I don't think I've ever seen such a flat calm, in 24 years at sea.”

“Yes, it’s like a mill pond. Not a breath of wind.” The Captain responds calmly. 

“It will make the bergs harder to see, with no breaking water at the base.” Lightoller says. 

“Mm. Well, I'm off. Maintain speed and heading, Mr. Lightoller.”

“Yes sir.”

“...And wake me, of course, if anything becomes in the slightest degree doubtful.”


End file.
